


Bubble Tea

by virmillion



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, M/M, i forgot how much i liked this one actually oops, like i actually enjoy rereading it?? what, seriously one of my favs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-08-19 21:59:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16543070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virmillion/pseuds/virmillion
Summary: alternative title - i've never read nor written a coffee shop au, but here's some nonsense that's basically the same thing with a slightly different menu





	Bubble Tea

“Large honeydew milk tea with green tea and lychee popping bubbles, no extra bubbles.” These are the words imprinted on the inside of Roman’s eyelids when he shuts his eyes to go to sleep every night. That same guy that comes in, never the same time, every single day, with the exact same order. A smile, a word of thanks, and he’s gone. Roman presses the heels of his hands to his temples, blinking at the cash register. The guy is late.

Okay, to be fair, Roman took this job because Patton swore the hours were good. Bonus time to people watch was just a happy coincidence. He swirls the oversized straw around in his orange-filled cup, looking at the bakery across the way. For a bubble tea store nestled in the most remote part of a mall that can’t decide whether it’s aimed at toddler hipsters or adult rock stars, they certainly get a fair amount of business. The pink and purple LED sign casts a pale glow on the shiny linoleum floor outside.

“Hi, what can I get for you?” His voice sounds almost robotic, the introduction rehearsed and done to death as Roman stands to greet the customer. Looking at the woman, her shirt the type of thing one might call a blouse—he’d always hated that word—Roman already knows what she’s going to say. A fair amount of his willpower goes into not mouthing the words along with her.

“Just the usual, thanks. I have somewhere to be, so could you make it quick?”

Rather than say what he wants to— _ I have literally never seen you before in my entire life _ —Roman smiles. “Sorry, could you remind me what your usual is?”

“A milk tea.” The woman rolls her eyes, obviously annoyed with the absolute incompetence of the fools and imbeciles populating Roman’s generation. The polka dot umbrella tucked under her arm bounces with her barely contained sigh.

“Okay, what type of tea? What size? What flavor? Extra tapioca?” Roman tries not to let his eyes drift to the clock, whose minute hand dwindles away to closing time all too slowly.

“Milk tea. I just said that, and a small. Just a milk tea.”

“Ma’am, I need to know what kind of tea you want in the milk tea. Green or black tea? We don’t serve smalls, only regulars and larges.”

“That’s ridiculous. Just give me a green milk tea in your smallest cup, what do you even mean that I need to pick a flavor?”

“If you look under the milk tea section, you’ll see the flavors. Almond, chocolate, chai, pineapple, any of those suit your fancy?” Roman gestures to the menu with a cupped hand, a habit from some facebook article he read about Disney world—that the workers couldn’t point with one finger, since that was rude in some cultures. Two fingers or the whole arm. He had never bothered to verify this, of course, and instead adopted the mannerism as his own. He didn’t have time to check facts that weren’t immediately hurting him. “And do you want extra tapioca?”

“No extra whatever. Just give me a chai in your smallest cup. Quickly.” The woman shoves a fistful of bills in his face, already tapping away at her phone. Rather than throw the change back with just as much vigor, the way he would love to, Roman does the polar opposite. He gives her a sickeningly sweet smile and gingerly hands back the coins, throwing caution to the wind as he prances about preparing her stupid not-small chai milk tea with green tea and no extra whatever.

“Here’s your drink, have a nice day!” Roman props a hand under his chin, using the other to do that weird vertical one-hand-clapping wave. The woman snatches the cup from the counter and stabs an oversized straw through it, muttering a “yeah” as she goes.

“Doesn’t even bother to make the straw color correspond to the flavor color,” Roman mutters,  _ tsk _ ing to himself. “No sense of decorum.” The second hand on the clock ticks ever closer to closing time, leaving only five minutes of cushion before someone barrels into the makeshift room, sneakers squeaking against the floor as they skid to a stop.

Roman waves off the worried look in his eyes with a laugh. “We’re still open, no worries. Large honeydew milk tea with green tea and lychee popping bubbles, no extra bubbles?” He’s already ringing it up before the kid can nod. “No problem, just give me a sec.”

As he shakes up the pastel green mixture, Roman allows his focus to drift to his peripherals, where the kid slumps into one of the rickety metal chairs with wood for a cushion. Judging by the sopping mop of hair on him, it’s probably pouring buckets outside, but Roman knows better than to make light conversation. He tried that the first few times he had a shift, but most people just offered that polite half smile that said ‘I don’t really want to talk right now, but I’ll humor you with conversation if it keeps you from spitting in my drink.’ Roman could respect that.

That common attitude is what keeps Roman from commenting on the smears of grey on the guy’s fingers as he takes the drink, grabbing a reddish pink straw with it. Whether he wanted to emulate Italy or Christmas or something else with his color combination, Roman doesn’t question it. He only watches the guy go, sneakers squeaking once more when he stops for something on the floor. Judging by the brown shine, probably a penny from that curt lady before. Roman stays there, eyes lingering on the opening in place of a door, long after the guy has disappeared into the more populous section of the mall. Thoughts of honeydew dance on a highwire in his mind.

“Roman? What are you still doing here? You were supposed to close five minutes ago.” Roman blinks, his eyes finally registering the nothingness he’d been staring at. Yes, in fact, the lights of the bakery are already dimmed, the slushie machine humming a mournful tune in the dark.

“Yeah. Um. Yeah, just hang on.” Roman absently clicks off everything that makes a sound, probably missing some stuff in the process. No big deal, it’s not like the mall would notice a little more money being spent on lighting a bubble tea shop. “Okay, let’s go.”

“You, uh, you wanna turn off the lights?” Roman blinks again, glancing up. Shockingly enough, the lights were still on. Why hadn’t someone invented something to make them do that automatically yet? Somebody really should get on that, at least for his convenience if nothing else.

“Yeah. Um. Yeah.” Roman leans behind the door of the little office space to drop the room into darkness. Only the light of the pink sunset cracks through the mall. “Okay, let’s go.”

“Why are you repeating yourself so much? Something happen?” Swinging around the counter to join his friend, Roman’s mind wanders. His eyes linger on the smudged glasses on his friend’s face, never clean for more than a moment. A cookie crumb sits by his lips, probably forgotten amidst the excitement of helping a whole three people in one day. His friend waves a hand at Roman, using the other to tug a scarf around his neck.

“Hello, earth to Roman? Dial in, troops.”

“Sorry, Pat. Just thinking.”

“So something  _ did  _ happen.”

“I will neither confirm nor deny that.” Patton huffs, looping the grey scarf through itself as they approach the front doors. Rain hammers down in sheets.

“You literally have an entire car ride back to the dorms to think on it, so you might as well start spilling now.”

Roman seizes the opportunity, sprinting out into the angry tears of the sky. “Sorry, I can’t hear you, the clouds are too loud!” He easily beats Patton to the bright blue car, tugging on the door handle. Locked. He tugs again and again, impatient for Patton to open the darn thing. Of course, once he does, Roman manages to tug the handle at the exact same time, locking it again anyway. Roman groans, forcing patience into himself as Patton unlocks it again.

“I am not starting this car until you tell me what’s going on.”

“Honeydew.”

“Again? I thought you decided to leave well enough alone.” Patton sets the car in gear and takes off from the parking lot, the windshield wipers pulsing in tandem with Roman’s heart.

“He came in really late today, I’m worried something’s up.” Playing around with some game on his phone, Roman sighs. “He seems so cool, you know? Like, just looking at him, you can tell in his eyes that he’s somewhere else. He’s got, like, a whole world up there, and I just want to peek inside.” He turns his head to Patton as the car rolls to a stop for a red light. “Don’t make that face. I don’t need to hear about how lovestruck I am or whatever. Stop making that face. Patton, I swear to God, if you don’t stop making that face, I will forcibly eject myself from this car and let all the rain soak your fancy leather seats.”

“They’re cloth,” Patton shoots back, still smiling to himself as the light turns green. “You’re smitten and you know it.”

“I don’t know anything.”

“You said it, not me.” Patton spins the dial for the radio, settling on some alternative band with a decently low volume as the sound of rain floods the car. “I think you should say something. Just ask how his day was, make small talk or something. You already know his usual, asking about the weather isn’t that far of a stretch.”

Sliding down further in his seat, Roman props his shoes up on the dashboard. He ignores Patton’s protests of the possible harm that might come if they were to get in an accident. “Perfect, they can pay off my tuition, plus my parents will have one less name to cram on the Christmas cards.”

“That’s not the attitude you’re supposed to take.”

“And yet.” Roman lets the rain’s hammering crescendo in his head, a drumbeat with no rhythm to accompany the wordless music in his head.

 

~~~~~

 

The next day, Roman rolls into the bubble tea place five minutes before his shift starts, the bags under his eyes heavy from exhaustion and the nuisance that is class. The person he takes over for barely blinks, shucking the uniform hat and finishing up whatever they had going on behind the counter. Roman takes the barest hint of a nod for a collective greeting, farewell, and show of gratitude as the person leaves. He mirrors it.

“Hi, what can I get for you?” The words are out of his mouth before he registers who he’s looking at. Honeydew.

“Could I get, hm, how about a large cotton candy milk tea with green tea and regular tapioca?” Roman works quickly to not look so taken aback at the change in request. What happened to his Honeydew?

“Right away.” His motions feel stiff and unrehearsed, so unaccustomed to a break in routine from this guy. For as long as Roman’s worked here, he’s ordered the same thing. “Here you go.”

The guy slides a lilac straw from the basket to match the light blue froth. “Thanks.” Rather than leaving as he always does, the guy takes a seat at one of the cheap chairs, slinging a backpack down from his shoulders and pulling a notebook from it. Roman fights not to look at him, forcing his eyes to drift to the flickering lights, the logo painted on the wall, the same penny on the floor. Heads up, in the same place it was yesterday. Maybe the guy didn’t stop for it, then.

Over the course of an hour or so, the guy sips at his drink, scribbling away at his book. From the angle it’s propped on his curled knees, Roman can’t tell whether he’s writing or drawing, but whatever the activity, it’s done more intently than Roman’s ever seen someone else do anything. The only thing to interrupt Roman’s vigil of watching the guy is serving the occasional customer, most of them with wildly better moods than the woman yesterday. Granted, one rolls their eyes when he informs them they dropped a coin, and they didn’t even stop to retrieve it, but still.

In the rare moments that the radio switches from elevator music to more alternative songs, the guy’s head bobs to the beat, just barely enough to be visible. So absorbed is the guy in his work that he doesn’t notice Roman studying him to his heart’s content. He doesn’t notice Roman’s eyes falling down that lock of dyed purple hair, or tracing how it frames the tired squint of his eyes. He doesn’t notice Roman taking a careful inventory of every stitch in his clothes, a rare blessing that the worker seldom gets with the guy’s short visits. He doesn’t notice Roman admiring the drawings on his sneakers, clearly done in varying types of sharpie.

When the last tapioca pearls vanish up his straw and the notebook disappears into his bag once more, the boy approaches the counter again. “Okay,  _ now  _ I’ll take a large—”

“Large honeydew milk tea with green tea and lychee popping bubbles, no extra bubbles, coming right up.” Roman recoils internally from his overeager self, setting about preparing the drink in embarrassed silence. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” Before the boy— _ Honeydew _ , Roman decides,  _ that must be his name _ —before  _ Honeydew  _ can grab a reddish pink straw, Roman pipes up again.

“We’re running low on our straws and the next shipment doesn’t come in until tomorrow, but we’ve got some white ones if you want a white bubble green drink white straw palindrome style thing.” A mental hand slap accompanies the embarrassment. “Um.”

To Roman’s relief, Honeydew gives a nose exhale of a laugh. “Good point. Thanks again.” Just like the day before, Honeydew pauses by something shiny on the floor—probably the coin someone dropped earlier—and sets off on his merry way. The rest of Roman’s shift is a gross over analyzation of why Honeydew ordered something other than honeydew, and had the audacity to order it after anyway. Was he mad? Was he having a bad day? Did he get in a car accident which led to him being in the hospital which led to him having blood tests and they found out through some freak perfume accident that he was allergic to honeydew and it was slowly killing him from the inside despite his genuine love of the drink and absolutely no symptoms to demonstrate any danger to his health?

Roman is overthinking again.

“Regular honeydew milk tea with green tea and lychee popping bubbles, no extra bubbles, please.” The familiar giggle behind the voice stops Roman in his tracks.

“Close, but he gets a large.” Patton grins, waving a five at Roman anyway.

“Just get me whatever you like best, so I can know what I’m missing out on.”

“Patton, you tried bubble tea five years ago and swore off the stuff ever since because of how weird the texture is.”

“Irrelevant.” Another laugh bubbles out of Patton as Roman pretends to add some coins to the mixing cup before reaching for the taro powder.

“It’s kind of like vanilla, but I think you’ll like it.” Roman shakes his head at the offered money from Patton, holding out a hand with his palm up. “We both know what I want.”

“You drive a hard bargain, my good sir.” Patton obediently places a triangular chocolate chip cookie in Roman’s hand, taking the drink in exchange. “Any new Honeydew stories?”

“Well, for one, I finally decided to start calling him Honeydew in my head, so that’s certainly a thing that’s happening now.” Roman folds his arms over the glass box covering the ice cream, relishing in how the cold bites at his skin. “He ordered something different, scribbled in a notebook for, like, an hour, got his usual, and left.”

“That’s it? Come on, give me the juice! At least tell me you found out his name, where he lives, what he drives, whether he goes here, all that good stuff?” Patton drums his fingertips on the glass counter in unrestrained anticipation as Roman pauses their conversation to help yet another person that’s never heard of tapioca or politeness before.

Roman calls out a generic “Have a nice day” before turning his attention back to Patton. “Literally nothing. Come find me again tomorrow. Isn’t your break over yet?”

Patton glances back at his bakery, at the line forming in front of the register, at the impatiently tapping feet. “Shoot, yeah, okay. You get off easy this time, but I’m hounding you tomorrow.”

“As if we don’t carpool here and back anyway,” Roman retorts, busying himself with the next customer. Even as he serves black tea and iced tea and slushies, the back of his mind always lingers on Honeydew. On that small strand of hair tracing just under his eyes. On the careful curl of his shoulders to shield the book. On what must have been graphite smudged on his hand. On the almost-laugh. Roman made him almost laugh.  _ New goal,  _ Roman decides,  _ I’m going to make him real laugh. _

 

~~~~~

 

The simplest solution to Roman’s newest life goal would be to tell a joke. Roman, however, is an utterly hopeless romantic, and he isn’t entirely convinced that his parents weren’t psychic to the point of knowing as much when they named him. Regardless of his parents preternatural abilities, or lack thereof, this means that Roman had a veritable five pages of notebook paper filled with possible conversation starters, jokes, and anything else his brain spat onto the page at three in the morning. In spite of his admittedly unnecessary and ultimately unintelligible planning, Roman is completely unprepared when Honeydew strolls in, backpack in hand. He drops it on the same chair as yesterday and stands against the wall, considering the menu while Roman finishes serving the customer that was there first.

“Large vanilla milk tea with green tea and regular tapioca, please,” Honeydew says, rolling up to the register. He smiles as the customer before him, a mother with a young child, bound out of the store, but not before the kid stops to pick up a couple of coins of the ground.

“They’re heads up!” she exclaims, showing off the shiny treasures alongside an even shinier grin full of teeth. Her mother smiles pack, reminding her to put them somewhere safe, ‘for blackmail against the tooth fairy.’ Roman bites his lips to keep from giggling, but Honeydew lets a snicker fall out. Roman resolves to get an even louder laugh than that.

“Thanks much.” Honeydew allows just the corner of his mouth to curve up, a perfect reflection of that same strand of hair dangling down. Taking up a position identical to that from yesterday, Honeydew sets about scrawling in that same notebook. In mere minutes, the graphite stains his hands. Roman casts a hesitant glance to the bakery, where Patton waggles his eyebrows to the point that his customer looks a little concerned. Once they have their cookies and go, Patton shoos his hands in a ‘go on, then’ gesture, not at all subtle in how quickly he darts his eyes between Roman and Honeydew. Roman throws his own arms up with a huff, sticking his tongue out at Patton. He realizes a moment too late that Honeydew is giving him a quirked eyebrow while biting his lips.

“Nothing!” Roman answers the question no one asked, that no one had planned to ask, and buries his face in his cell phone, certain his face is burning. Time drags on all too slowly as he tries to force the color away from his face, counting down the moments until Honeydew comes back for his usual drink.

“Large honeydew milk tea with green tea and lychee popping bubbles, no extra bubbles please?” A hint of a smile toys with Honeydew’s lips as he passes over some crumpled bills. Roman prepares the drink in silence, handing it over and merely nodding at Honeydew’s thanks.

“Anything new today, Romeo?” Patton appears at the end of their shifts, same as always. He slips a five into the tip jar when he thinks Roman isn’t looking.

“Close enough.” Roman slumps over the register, resting his forehead against the screen reading out wishes for a nice day. “I decided my one true purpose was to make him laugh, but does it count if he’s laughing at my expense?”

“It doesn’t  _ not _ count.” Patton drops a dime into the tip jar as Roman casts his eyes to the ceiling in defeat.

“Let’s just go, those flavor jars are mocking me for my incompetence.” Even the weather mocks Roman, with the sunset’s brilliant pink and orange hues. The perfect scene for a romantic moment, if only Roman had any clue how to get himself in that situation. If nothing else, he can reconcile himself with the fact that somewhere, another happy couple is enjoying the same image together. As for his own attitude, Roman is bitter and bottling it up.

In their dorm room, Patton glances up from his impossibly high stack of homework. “Don’t you have stuff to get done for class?”

Roman looks over at Patton, a laptop propped up in his lap. “That’s a matter of opinion.”

“Living on the streets because you were too busy pining over a boy is not a matter of opinion.”

“But have you considered this? It actually is a matter of opinion, and yours is the wrong one.” Patton balls up a sticky note and tosses it at Roman’s head.

“So what are you doing instead then? Looking up pick up lines and wikihows for how to talk to boys?”

“What I am doing is precisely none of your business,” Roman retorts, closing the tabs of pick up lines and wikihows for how to talk to boys. He switches his attention to tumblr, reblogging nearly every post he finds and showing off his favorites to Patton. “Look at this, if I were this good, I could draw something for Honeydew.”

“You could draw a picture of a honeydew,” Patton says. Roman chucks the sticky note back at him.

“Right, because I have the courage to do something like that.”

“I’m sorry, which of us was the first to find a date our freshman year?”

“Irrelevant. Honeydew is different.”

“How so?”

“I actually really like this one.” Looking back at tumblr, Roman feels gravity pulling at his eyelids. To the tune of Patton humming to himself and clicking around the notes tab on his computer, Roman drifts off to sleep. Visions of dancing honeydew slices traipse through his dreams.

 

~~~~~

 

Up until today, Roman has been certain of what the best day ever was. Grade eleven, he sent off his last early admissions application to his reach college, sealing the envelope with saliva and hopelessness. Cut to a few months later, all of which were filled with tapping feet and messy handwriting on frantic essays, and a letter comes in the mail. To tell the truth, Roman was shocked they got back to him so fast, but more surprising was the first word in that letter from a college that probably saw him as less than dirt stuck between the treads of their shoes.  _ Congratulations.  _ The word reverberated in his head for months, years now. Congratulations. Congratulations. You’re good enough, you got in, we want you here, we think you have something worthwhile to offer. Congratulations.

A heavy contender for second place of the best day ever is probably right now, as Honeydew strolls in with a new guy. “It’s simple, Lo,” Honeydew is saying, “you tell him whether you want iced or milk tea, green or black, and what flavor. Just get regular tapioca, popping bubbles might weird you out if you haven’t had regular bubble tea before.” Roman marvels as the low, rolling tones in Honeydew’s voice, reminding him of how Raven used to sound on Teen Titans. If Honeydew were the one teaching his classes, Roman would probably never fall asleep. “Here, I’ll go first.” Honeydew holds out a hand like someone might do to a frazzled dog, trying to make sure his friend stays put. “Large pineapple milk tea with green tea and lychee popping bubbles, please.”

Roman hesitates before punching in the order. “Just to warn you, the citrus in the pineapple is gonna curdle the milk and make the densities separate. Basically, it’s gonna look like a science experiment.”

“Even better.” The grin on Honeydew’s face bears an unnerving contrast to the disgust on his friend’s.

“Just a regular kiwi iced tea, green tea, tapioca bubbles, please. I can do without the science experiments for now, thank you.” His friend starts counting out bills from his wallet before Honeydew cuts back in, passing a wad of crumpled bills to Roman. Behind Honeydew and across the way, Roman can see Patton flashing a double thumbs up.

“Coming right up.” Honeydew and his friend—Kiwi, Roman decides, despite having heard Honeydew call him Lo, so Kiwi—take up a spot at Honeydew’s usual table, murmuring a quiet conversation between themselves. For the first time since his training days, Roman messes up, all of his attention on the situation on the other side of the counter. He recovers quickly enough, masking the mistake as part of the process, but they aren’t looking, anyway. Kiwi is too absorbed in poring over the notebook Honeydew always totes around, and Honeydew is too busy burying his face in his jacket. What little skin pokes out of it is flushed pink. “Here ya go, guys.” Taking the cups and color coordinated straws with a grin, Honeydew swirls around his science experiment of a drink.

“Pretty cool thing you’ve got going there.”

“I mean, I didn’t invent bubble tea, but if you don’t feel like checking your sources. . .” Roman lets his voice trail off, regretting each word the second it leaves his mouth. He should’ve stayed quiet, smiled and nodded, gone back to his phone, done  _ something _ besides making a fool of himself—

Honeydew laughs.

He  _ laughs. _

And Roman melts.

The romantic thing to do would be to claim that it sounds like ringing bells, like the Holy Grail being struck with a golden mallet, like something sent from heaven to grace his ears. The correct thing to do would be to ignore it. The Roman thing to do would be to do neither of those things. The Roman thing to do is to spout incoherent babbling sounds in an attempt to keep the conversation going. Which is what he does. Honeydew does a finger gun motion at him before rejoining his friend, plunking the kiwi drink down on the table. That laugh plays on loop in Roman’s head, long after Honeydew and Kiwi leave, after Patton badgers him for details, after they get back to their dorm, after Roman comes to a particular realization at the dwindling hour of four minutes until two am.

“There’s a problem.”

The responding snort from the blanket mound on the other side of the room is not comforting.

 

~~~~~

 

Honeydew is late. Roman is panicking. Closing time is approaching. Worst of all, Honeydew is still late. As Roman reluctantly sets about shutting down all the machines, a shadow appears in front of the register. Kiwi.

“Hi, yes, hello, can I help—you can get—what get can I for you today?” Roman holds back a grimace at his horrendous grammar, but Kiwi merely shrugs, twisting his lips to the side.

“I was here yesterday, but I doubt you remember, what with how many people are served here on a daily basis. Regardless, I was accompanying my friend, who appears to be a fan of your refreshments, but he’s been held up by a group project. Accordingly, I am here to purchase his drink on his behalf. He said to just get him ‘his usual,’ that you would know what it meant. Was he correct?”

Roman shakes the shock from his head at trying to absorb so much information at once. “Yeah, no, yes, I know his usual, that’s correct. Anything for you?”

“I don’t suppose you remember my order from yesterday, do you?”

“No, no, I do, it was a regular kiwi—”

“Unimportant, I’ll take whatever you prepare. How much?” Kiwi forks over the bills as Roman prepares the two drinks, his head spinning over why Honeydew hadn’t shown up. Kiwi nods at Roman as he takes the drinks and leaves, the mall lights overhead flickering out behind him. Closing time.

On sheer impulse alone, Roman leaves the lights on as he sprints for the front door, where he can just barely see Kiwi’s dark grey car pulling away. There he stays, eyes lingering as the headlights disappearing into the descending dusk, uncaring that other people clocking out are giving him weird looks. When darkness settles and the gates have lowered over most of the storefronts, a hand comes to rest on his shoulder. Roman looks up at Patton, who spins his keys around on a finger.

“Locked up your store for you. Come on, we’re going out somewhere.” With that not-quite-invitation, Roman finds himself seated at a booth, his face warm and Patton’s cheeks glowing under the soft red lamp overhead.

“Stop thinking so much, kiddo. If you’re going to have that goofy little smile on your face, I deserve to hear the reason behind it.”

“I’m older than you,” Roman mutters halfheartedly, spinning the ice cubes around in his drink.

“I’m taller than you, next question.” Patton stabs his fork in the air, trying to swallow around a wad of spaghetti. A drop of red sauce splatters onto the glass table, a few stray specks landing on Roman’s face. “So what’s up with you? Why are you so obsessed with a guy whose name you don’t even know?”

“Please, I saw you giving those eyes to Kiwi.”

Patton’s fork clatters to the table. “You call him Kiwi. Oh my God, you call him Kiwi.  _ Please  _ tell me you call yours Honeydew.”

“None of your business.”

“Oh my God, you do. You totally call him Honeydew. Roman, you literally gave a pet name to someone you don’t know. You are so head over heels, it isn’t even funny.”

“Just shut up, okay?” The hint of a laugh in Roman’s voice is enough to show Patton he isn’t actually angry, although embarrassment is definitely high up there on his list of emotions. “He’s just so pretty, and he’s always got that book with him, and even when he started changing up his order, he still gets the same thing, and he’s so patient with his friend, and he even smiled at this little girl who thought she was rich when she found eleven cents on the floor, and—” A blissful smile works its way onto Roman’s face as he rambles on about Honeydew, his plate of pasta forgotten on the table. Patton interjects only occasionally to agree with the more objective points, content to hear Roman being completely smitten all the way through dinner, into the car, and back to the dorm. Roman talks himself to sleep as Patton cuts through his homework stack, still happy for his friend, and maybe just a little bit curious about that Kiwi character.

 

~~~~~

 

A common misconception about college students is that their one and only goal is to get drunk, get high, party, or do some combination of the three. It’s not a guarantee, but Roman is pretty sure a ouija board is involved somewhere in there. On the other hand, there’s the people who are actually happy to have gotten into their dream school, to be sinking themselves into debt for the sole purpose of happiness later in life. If that means working at some bubble tea shop for minimum wage and barely making a dent in his loans, well, so be it. At least he still gets to sit behind this marble counter, prodding tapioca between his teeth and observing some stranger scribbling in a notebook.

“Hey, thanks for putting up with Logan yesterday. He can be a bit much, you know?” Honeydew’s amiable conversation is so utterly unexpected that Roman can hardly do more than nod.

“Yeah, he was—he, um—he was fine. What flavor are you looking at today?”

“What do you suggest?” Every alarm in Roman’s head is ringing at full throttle as he tries to form normal sentences.

“The honeydew is pretty good, I think that one is my favorite.”  _ Roman, could you possibly be any more obvious? _

“Yeah, that’s why I get it when I go. Saving the best for last, you know?” Honeydew clicks his teeth together with a wink. “I’ll try the almond milk tea, large with green tea and regular tapioca, please.” The process of mixing the drink is a blur as Roman stumbles around behind the counter, more focused on not spilling anything than he is on not looking like a fool.

Either a blink or an hour later, Roman isn’t sure which, Honeydew is returning to the counter and asking for his usual, provided Roman recalls what it is.

“Here, I’ll cut you a deal.” The words are falling out of Roman’s mouth before he can hear them in his head. “If I get your order right, you tell me what’s going on in that notebook of yours.”

“And why might I agree to that?” Humor dances in Honeydew’s eyes.

“I could just not make your drink at all.”

“I could just hop the counter and make it myself.”

“I could just scream.” Honeydew seems somewhat taken aback by this counter, but he grins.

“Got me there, I’m not about to draw any more attention to this little shop. Don’t want your business to start overflowing and kicking me out of my favorite place, now, do we?” Honeydew grins wider, eyes lingering on Roman’s little plastic name tag. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Frederick.”

“Yeah, no, I definitely stole this name tag from the last guy who worked here. That’s not my name.”

“So what  _ is  _ your name, then?”

“Well, mister large honeydew milk tea with green tea and lychee popping bubbles, no extra bubbles, that’s just for me to know and you not to, isn’t it? What’s in the notebook?”

Honeydew passes over the money to pay, squinting at Roman. “Make the drink first. If it tastes good enough, I’ll tell you.” Needless to say, Roman was more careful making that drink than he’d ever been before. He even goes so far as to grab the reddish pink straw for him.

Honeydew inspects the pastel green carefully, poking his tongue out in concentration. “Decent enough, I suppose. Observant, anyway. I’ll bite, not-Frederick. The notebook is a bunch of drawings, since I don’t want to bring my actual sketchbook out where it might get ruined.”

“Can I see them?”

“I never agreed to that part of the deal. You said, and I quote, ‘If I get your order right, you tell me what’s going on in that notebook of yours.’ You got it right, so I told you. Showing it off was never part of the agreement.” Triumph bounces over Honeydew’s face as he does a one hand clapping wave. “Until tomorrow, not-Frederick.”

When Patton comes over to drag Roman out of his near-delirious state of joy for closing time, Roman has exactly four words to share with him. “There’s a bigger problem.”

“Come on, Loverboy, you need some sleep.”

 

~~~~~

 

“What kind of deal is it going to take to give me your name, not-Frederick?” Honeydew slams a hand on the counter, tapping the cash register with an impatient finger. Roman shakes his head, trying to get the grogginess out of his head from an ultimately sleepless night. Too much homework combined with persistent thoughts of tapioca and honeydew was not a good mix for an overworked college student.

“How much is it worth to you? I’ll take seeing your drawings, if that works for you.” Roman doesn’t know where the sudden bravado and ease of conversation came from, but he can’t deny that he enjoys it. Maybe talking to Kiwi helped break the ice. “Speaking of which, where’s your friend been? Logan, or whatever his name was.”

“I don’t know why you started that question with ‘speaking of which,’ given that we weren’t even remotely speaking of him, but he’s got a lot of studying to do pretty much on the daily. I just managed to force him out of our dorm for a couple days.” Honeydew lifts his hand from the counter, tugging that one disobedient strand of hair behind his ear. “Seeing my drawings is worth way more than just your name. I’d rather keep calling you not-Frederick.”

“That’s the only bargain I can think of.”  _ Besides your name. _

“How about my name?” That’s it, that settles it, Honeydew is just as psychic as Roman’s parents. Case closed, call Buzzfeed Unsolved and get the hell out of dodge.

“Seems fair, but what will it take for me to see inside that notebook?”

“We’ll lead that horse to the bridge when we burn it.”

“That’s not a real idiom.”

“Your face isn’t a real idiom, not-Frederick. Name, please.”

“Or you could tell me your name first.”

“And have you not fulfill your end of the deal? I think not. Name.”

“How do I know you’re good for your own side of the bargain?”

“Because I’m not some underpaid tea artist that got trapped in a conversation with a broke art student. Give me your name, or so help me, I will leave and take with me your highest paying customer.”

“Fine. The name’s Roman. Your turn.”

“See, now was that so hard? It’s Virgil, pleasure to meet you. I’ll take a large chai milk tea with green tea and regular tapioca, thanks much.” Honeydew—Virgil, evidently—takes up his normal spot in his normal chair, more cautious than ever about shielding the notebook from Roman’s view. He goes so far as to flip the paper face down on the table when Roman sets the finished drink on the counter, just in case Roman were to get the idea to look over at it. As if he weren’t doing that already.

The double thumbs up from Patton is only slightly encouraging.

 

~~~~~

 

If someone had told Roman to write an autobiography detailing the life and times of his working in the bubble tea shop, he would have done something similar to the following:

_ I started the job with few prospects beyond getting some pocket money. There was a guy that came in a lot. He always ordered a large honeydew milk tea with green tea and lychee popping bubbles, no extra bubbles. One day he ordered something different. He came back a lot to try the different flavors. Through my own genius, I managed to learn his name and instantly gained his affection. I was a perfect romantic and he was enamoured with me. I was suave and clever and he could not keep himself away. The end. _

The truth, however, is that nothing changed, beyond Virgil greeting Roman with his name before ordering something new, followed by a farewell the same way. Roman sat pining away behind the counter, only now it was that much more obvious to Virgil. Toss in a few friendly insults and jokes, and that pretty much sums up their interactions. That is, until Virgil runs out of new flavors to try. Such a day is the one Roman dreads most, when Virgil no longer has a reason to show up anymore.

“Come on Roman, you’re slacking. Don’t tell me you haven’t invented new flavors to keep me around?” Virgil slumps over the glass cover of the ice cream, a dramatic mockery of despair written in the slump of his shoulders. Patton waves excitedly at Roman from his bakery, the only person to be following the soap drama that is Roman’s life. At least, that’s what Roman calls it. Patton just thinks it’s adorable, but if it gives Roman an excuse to talk about Virgil more, then so be it.

“Can’t say I have. Are you leaving me and shattering this beautiful relationship we’ve built?” The ease of talking as if they were dating is impossibly alien to Roman, and he’s thrilled that Virgil slid into the rhetoric so easily.

“Don’t worry, I’ll send Logan back as a scout sometimes to check in on those new flavors you’re inventing.”

“You never even showed me your notebook drawings, how will I remember you?”

“By the taste of honeydew and lychees.” As if Roman didn’t already think of those on a twenty four hour basis.

“Can we make a bargain for it?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, what’s important to you?”

Virgil traces his fingers around in the fog of the cool glass, doodling scribbles and swirls. “How about your number?” By some miracle, Virgil is too absorbed in his drawing to notice the tapioca pouring out of Roman’s mouth as his jaw drops.

“That, um, yeah, I, um, I could denifitely, I mean definitely, I love would, I mean—” Virgil flicks his eyes up, a half-smile on his face.

“Awesome.” He tears a shred of paper from his notebook and hands it to Roman, along with a pen. “The usual, then. Got this big project to work on, but it’s been fun.” Roman has probably never written anything faster—or neater—than he writes his phone number on the paper scrap.

“Your day, my drink, have a nice number,” Roman says, wincing at his mangling and desecration of the english language. Virgil takes both with an almost laugh, giving Roman a full piece of paper before moving for the front of the mall. Through some miracle, the amount of customers to roll in after that is abnormally small, probably due to their filling up at Patton’s bakery, which is actually gaining some traction. By closing time, Patton is visibly swamped and exhausted, and Roman is still staring at a spot-on sketch of the face of Virgil’s friend, Logan.

“Hey, that’s pretty cool. You draw it?” Patton leans over to counter to peer at the paper, prompting Roman to stash it safely in his bag and move for the exit.

“As if. I’m not an art major, pal, no way. Virgil drew it.”

“Ah, yes, Honeydew, the beloved boy of your dreams. How many body parts did you have to trade to get that?” Roman hesitates, holding the front door open for Patton.

“Just my number.” The resounding screech from Patton echoes off the lamp posts that flicker around his car.

“No way. No. Way. Did you offer it? Did he ask? You have to let me be your best man at the wedding.”

Crouching down, Roman slides into the passenger seat and messes with the radio dial. “Pat, I don’t even have his number. I have to wait for him to text me, which he’ll probably never do, because I’m literally just some loser behind a cash register in a bubble tea joint, and oh my God Patton I just got a text from a new number saying their name is Virgil what do I do Patton what do I  _ do  _ take the phone I cannot handle this right now oh my God Patton take the stupid phone!” Roman throws his cell on the floor of the driver’s side, drawing his knees to his chest and staring out the window as if the traffic light ahead were about to explode at any moment.

Patton retrieves the phone, patting Roman’s knee with a reassuring hand. “It says ‘hey dude, this is Virgil from the bubble tea place, if this is a joke number and you lied to me I am going to sneak into your dorm room and replace all of your toothpaste with hubba bubba tape gum.’” Patton lowers the phone to glance sidelong at Roman. “So what exactly did you like about this guy?”

“Oh jeez, text him back, um, sheesh, what do I say to that? My toothpaste is on the line here, Patton, we need something to respond.” Roman buries his burning face in his knees. “Tell him that he has the right number, this is Roman, please don’t hurt my toothpaste.” With a grin, Patton complies, then hands the phone back to Roman as the light turns green.

“You have to answer now, buddy, I can’t text and drive. Literally and legally, I am physically incapable of doing so. Take the phone before we crash.” No small amount of effort goes into Roman forcing himself to accept the phone, feeling his eyes ache as he stares at the screen and waits for a response.

When the phone pings again, he nearly throws it out the window.

“He said W and then Y and then D, Patton, what do I do now? Is he trying to cast a curse on me through my phone? We need to go into witness protection, I think Virgil is secretly Cthulhu, Patton, we gotta get out of here.”

“Roman. You’ve been on tumblr. He asked what you’re doing.” Patton’s fingers turn white from their grip on the wheel as he holds back a laugh. For such a romantic, his friend truly is hopeless when it comes to genuine caring for someone else.

“What do I say? What am I doing? I’m breathing, is that it?” Patton quirks his mouth to the side, rolling his eyes just a little bit, just enough for it to not be in annoyance. “Right, right, calm down. I’m in a car and we’re going back to our dorm and then I’m going to sleep. Basic stuff, basic conversation, normal human things, I can do this.” Trying his best to sound like a normal human doing normal human things, Roman responds to Virgil and rams his head into the headrest. “Dang it, Patton, he’s just so  _ pretty _ , it’s not fair and frankly? It’s kind of rude, I don’t appreciate how cool he is, who even gave him the right? He’s too pretty, it’s illegal, I just decided.”

The rest of the car ride, and the rest of the night as a whole, sounds strikingly similar to this on repeat. Patton loves it.

 

~~~~~

 

The next day, Roman doesn’t even bother asking whether Virgil would like the usual, having already prepared it once he saw Virgil walk in the front door. He definitely wasn’t watching the door all night, impatient for the moment Virgil would show up, nosiree, that was not the case. What is the case, however, is the large and prominent sacks under Roman’s eyes, from not sleeping a wink. In his defense, few things are more enjoyable or endearing than texting Virgil with only the light of the moon to illuminate his smile. One of those few things is talking to Virgil in person, which Roman does happily.

“You got anything going on tonight, then?” Virgil asks, dropping his chin on the ice cream glass.

“I’m sorry, are you asking me on a date?”

“Dude, don’t make it gay.”

“I literally am gay.” Roman pokes Virgil’s forehead, making him miss his mouth with the reddish pink straw. “Pretty sure you are, too, given how many times you’ve told me while standing right there.”

“Be that as it may, you didn’t answer my question. Anything going on?”

“Not that I know of.” Roman looks over at Patton, who would probably love to know about this new development. Evidently, Virgil takes the look as worry about Roman’s carpool.

“I think he’s a little preoccupied to be too concerned about driving you home.” A fair point, given how intently Patton speaks to his current customer. “Never knew Logan was one for cookies from a mall bakery. Who would’ve thought?” Before Roman can comment on the apparently developing conversation across the way, Virgil continues, “so I’ll just hang out here until you close? We can go do something fun?”

“I can close right now, if you want,” Roman says. The clock is almost to closing time, anyway. “Where are we looking at going?”

“Definitely not a coffee shop.” Virgil links arms with Roman as the latter swings around the counter, waving at Patton as they pass. Patton barely nods, clearly too busy hanging on to every word from Logan’s mouth.

In Virgil’s car, he smacks Roman’s hand away from the radio dial. “We listen to my music, or you can walk your pretty little butt home.”

“You think my butt is pretty?”

“I think your face is pretty.”

Roman laughs, probably louder than necessary, but it’s real and warm and fills him like so many bubbles on a bright summer day. Virgil joins him, his laugh lower and more restrained, but genuine all the same. His breath smells like honeydew.


End file.
